Today I added yet another line to the list of things that prove how old I really am. I was reading some nonsense on the internet and came across a list of restaurants serving ridiculously deconstructed meals. They were all classic dishes with a twist—the twist being that the restaurants don’t actually make any meals for you. You can get a salad consisting of one giant lettuce leaf and a bowl of dressing. Or a pasta with every ingredient in separate mason jars. Or a fruit crumble spread across a wooden board.
It’s nonsense. I am totally uninterested in paying someone to not make me a meal. That’s just a really, really expensive grocery store, and that box in my life has already been checked by Whole Foods, thank you very much.
In conclusion, I am old. I am not hip enough to be interested in fancy food trends. Also, my pockets are full of tissues and I have to turn up the volume on my TV to an unreasonably high level.